


Prelude

by Marquise



Category: Rope (1948)
Genre: Bloodplay, M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-10-07 22:14:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20472608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marquise/pseuds/Marquise
Summary: Brandon and Phillip ready themselves for a reunion with David.





	Prelude

“They’re going to be cross if we’re late,” Brandon called from the other room. Phillip could almost hear the trailing smoke coming from his lips as he spoke, almost see the arched brow and disapproving look. He sighed and wiped some of the lather off the straight razor, trying not to allow the anxiety of Brandon’s speech to inflict his movements.

But even he had to admit to himself that he was dawdling. He did not want this, not that he said anything, not that it _mattered_. Brandon had been so fixated on meeting up with David as soon as he learned that he was back in the city that it almost seemed dangerous to stand in his way. Phillip had questioned it only in his own mind — the hatred he had for the other, lesser man still burned bright, and yet here he was, making plans and desperate for everything to go _right_. That Janet would be with them at the opera was not the point; Brandon saw her often enough, played about with the movement of her affairs enough to satisfy his controlling desires. The point had been to see David after all these years, with Phillip at his side. The whole thing left a feeling of unease in Phillip’s stomach, a tingling anticipation at what Brandon would do or say, a mild anger at being left out.

In his thoughts he had not been focused on shaving and he was sharply reminded of that fact. The cut was shallow and hurt all the more for it, the nerves and vessels close to the skin crying out. He let out a soft cry as he saw the blood bloom on his upper cheek, reaching for towels in order to halt its quick flow.

He didn’t hear Brandon approach but saw him in the mirror, cigarette in hand and eyes wide. That was an image he felt he could hold to himself for years to come — his lover’s face, clear concern etched on every line, his eyes focused on nothing but him.

“It’s nothing,” Phillip found himself saying almost instinctively, and it was. A flesh wound, one that both looked and felt worse than it really was, but he could see where the concern came from. The blood was staining the white of the towel, a sharp and awful sight, and he knew he would arrive at the Met with a bandage on his face. The thought of prompting some awful jest from David suddenly appeared in his mind and the coil in his stomach tightened.

“No need to hurry in such a way. He’s not worth it,” Brandon said, his voice low, calmer than it had been only moments before. He strode into the bathroom with two long strides, taking his smoke from his mouth, his eyes intently focused on Phillip in the way only _he _could. Having been the object of that focus for years had done nothing to stop the mingled feeling of pride, lust, and fear that bloomed in him every time he became aware of it.

When he reached Phillip’s side Brandon raised his hand, taking away the towel. The blood had stopped somewhat, though the wound remained raw and wet. The pain could almost be forgotten though, as the touch, the closeness of Brandon gave the room an odd sort of energy that stuck to the back of his throat. Phillip licked his lips, somewhat conscious that he should get away from a man with _that_ look in his eye, knowing that he never would.

Brandon reached up to touch the cut, fingers grazing his cheek and coming away red. Still looking Phillip in the eye he raised them to his lips and tasted.

Phillip felt as though his legs would give out from under him. Brandon must have sensed something similar, for an arm wrapped around his waist, pulled him into a kiss that was tainted with the taste of iron.

This should not be stirring something in him, Phillip knew, but he could not deny his body’s response. He pressed forward, needing to savor, needing Brandon to _know_ what he has dragging out of him. The soft hum from his lover’s lips told him that it was appreciated and pride pricked its way down Phillip’s spine.

It was horrible, dreadful, not at all _right_, but when had they ever been? And why should they be, when the world was so set on hating them, when everything they did was hidden by necessity? If Brandon wished to meet their friends with this shared taste of blood on his lips (which would, in that moment, certainly be twisted in a mocking smile) then was that nothing more than _victory_?

When they pulled away Brandon kissed the cut, his tongue lapping at the last of it and Phillip shuddered against him in a shameless display of ecstasy. He was hard now, the soft cotton of his pajamas doing nothing to hide it, but Brandon was not touching him there, not acknowledging his own obvious desire.

The cigarette returned to his lips, laugher just on the fringes of his tone as he spoke. “We’re running late. Perhaps we can have some time to ourselves during intermission?”

The idea of sneaking off to engage in something illicit, returning to their friends stained and worn caused a low growl in Phillip’s throat but he did not move. He felt pinned by that gaze, by the memory of that kiss. Not for the first time he hated his weakness even as it shuddered through him, left him wanting more.

Brandon knocked some ash in the sink, gripped his shoulder, and left the room. 


End file.
